Protector
by Chrystalline
Summary: Spoilers for Season 2 Grace Under Pressure What was Griffin thinking? Griffin POV


Title: Protector  
Author: Chrystalline  
Spoilers: Grace Under Pressure  
Category: Character Study, I guess  
Rating: G-PG?  
Status: Complete  
Beta: Belisse  
Season/Episode: Season 2, Grace Under Pressure  
Disclaimer: Just playing - no harm, no foul.  
Summary: What was Griffin thinking in Grace Under Pressure? Griffin POV  
Author's notes: For some reason I really identified with Griffin, so this may be more me than him, but this is how I saw it.  
My first finished fic - be gentle. Special thanks to Belisse for encouraging me to amble out into the water;)

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My high school counselor laughed when I told her I planned to go into the Air Force. She said it was oddly appropriate, given my name.  
At the time, I didn't know what she meant. Everybody knew a griffin was half lion and half eagle, but when I looked it up I was surprised  
to find that the eagle half represented wisdom and that they were generally displayed alongside gargoyles in an attempt to defend the  
castle from harm. It's kind of funny really; courage and wisdom were not traits I thought of having at the time, but of course, I never  
imagined I'd end up in a galaxy where Murphy ruled with an iron fist, either.

Wisdom… it's not the same thing as intelligence, although the science geeks around here sure seem to think it is. Yeah, they can play  
complicated math games and build nuclear warheads, but that's not the same as knowing when to use them. That's what we're here for.  
When I drew the assignment as Dr. McKay's test pilot, some of the other guys groaned and offered their condolences. I wasn't worried;  
I've got a thick skin. Even on the Daedalus, we've all heard about how Colonel Sheppard keeps him from spontaneous combustion by  
snarking right back at him. I can snark, too.

Discounting the scientist's mad butterfly impression all over the jumper, the flight out to the mainland was uneventful, and fairly boring,  
considering the only words to come out of his mouth were required radio chatter or direct commands about direction. Given what we  
were testing, I was willing to cut him a little slack, but when we headed back, I decided I wanted to talk. I'm not a robot, or a stone  
gargoyle.

"So, lemme ask you something. As a scientist, does it bother you that most of your work, no matter how brilliant, will eventually be  
considered misguided? 'Cause that would bother me."

"I'm sorry?"

He's not, of course, but it doesn't matter. The question was designed to sting, the better to ensure a response of some kind. It's still  
a good point. We may not have multiple PhDs in every science known to man, but we're not completely stupid, either. I can't see  
what he's doing back there, but his irritation is clear. We don't have much further to get back to the city, and I'm not going to spend  
the entire trip in silence. "Well, given enough time, everything's pretty much proven wrong, right?"

His short, sharp "No," would have been a conversation killer with anyone else; I guess he deserves his reputation as one of the most  
anti-social scientists here. You don't last long in the military being timid, so I persisted. "Everything from the Earth being flat to the sun  
revolving around us."

"Well, if you want to go back hundreds of years!"

Well, what do you think "eventually" means? Come on, McKay, you're supposed to be smart. I guess that answers my question,  
though; it bothers him so much he refuses to consider it. On the other hand, at least he's talking now and not just treating me like  
autopilot.

"Scientists get it wrong more times than they get it right." I glanced back over my shoulder at him. Did the man ever stand still?  
"Take the tomato."

"Excuse me?"

I guess that did sound odd all by itself. "Well, after the conquest of Mexico in 1519, tomatoes were carried eastward to Europe where  
they were believed to be poisonous." Something about looking like nightshade. At least I think that's what I remember reading.  
Whatever. Trivia is fun, but there are limits, and he's still not contributing much to the conversation.

"Shouldn't you be concentrating on what you're doing?"

What, a man can't fly and talk at the same time? Can't you walk and chew gum? "Got it covered, you worry about you."

"I _am_ worried about me. This is the first flight this thing has had since it was shot down and repaired. It deserves _all_ of your  
attention."

His voice breaks at the end of the sentence, not having enough air to get all the way through. He's really upset about this thing, but then,  
I heard he was on it when it went down on whatever planet that was. I'll probably never hear the whole story, but still! Relax, already.  
"It made it to the mainland; if anything was going to go wrong it would have gone wrong by now. Besides, doesn't he remember the  
jumpers listen to what you're thinking? Cut it out with the doom and gloom! "It took the Italians and the Spaniards to realize that  
tomatoes are, in fact, delicious."

He's muttering back there. He doesn't want to talk, but he can't help himself. It's all I can do not to grin.

"Columbus was Spanish, he figured out the Earth was round."

He sounds like he's choking on the words, "He was Italian."

Italians, Spanish, I was lumping them together anyway. Close enough. "So I wonder what it is that makes Spaniards so good at  
debunking bad science." I twisted around to look over my shoulder at him again. "You're not Spanish, are you?"

That did it. "Oh, yes, of the Barcelona McKays! Now if you don't mind..."

He's interrupted by an ominous crunching sound and a buzzing warble I can't identify, and suddenly the universe narrows to the controls  
under my hands and the bucking movements of the vehicle beneath me. People like to say that time slows down in an emergency  
situation; they're wrong. What really happens is, the moment you realize "This is life or death," your brain immediately dumps the majority  
of things you had been thinking about and focuses all your processing power on getting out alive. Everything else gets relegated to "later,"  
and crosses your mind like dreams. To continue the computer analogy, it's like the copy/paste clipboard. You'll save what you can later,  
but you have to survive first.

I barely hear his question, something about turbulence, or even my own response. The control panel starts beeping madly. I've never  
seen a jumper behave like this, and I curse in frustration and confusion. His diagnosis clears some of the confusion, at least, and I know  
I can still fly with only one pod - just as an ordinary plane can be flown with only one engine, but not with one engine in forward and one  
engine in reverse. Wasn't that what got Howard Hughes? Trivia again. The thought dances past the part of my mind that went still when  
the situation turned deadly.

"It's not recognizing any of my commands."

He's so matter-of-fact, still confident he can fix the problem. I can feel it, screaming in my mind, and I wonder why McKay seems so  
deaf to the jumper's mortal cry. Some detached portion of my mind comments that Colonel Sheppard would probably get a splitting  
headache from the shrill not-sound, and somehow I'm absurdly pleased that I don't. Then the thought flits across my mind that if Rodney  
was on the jumper when it crashed before, Sheppard would have been flying it, and I have the insane urge to call him on the radio to ask  
him how it felt. "Brace for impact."

"What!"

"We're going down!" I've surprised him. Shock, disbelief, fear, denial - so many emotions in one sharp syllable - but it's true and I only  
have seconds to give rescue teams a chance to find us. "Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! MAYDAY!"

The water is coming up fast, way too fast, and my mind screams furiously at the dying machine. Control is gone, there's nothing left to do  
but hold on and hope the hull survives well enough to keep us alive. I clenched my teeth over a litany of curses at the Ancient designers  
who didn't think to put wings on a flying craft so it could glide without power - these are the people who put in a failsafe to raise Atlantis?  
The impact is brutal, and the jumper slews around hard, slamming me into the console hard enough to knock me out.

I don't know how long it's been when McKay shakes my shoulder.

"Hey, hey, hey, you okay?"

I ache all over, but there's no point complaining about it - we're not done yet. Even so, I can't lie to him. "Not so good." I can hear the  
waver in my voice, and I hate it. I'm still woozy, and Zelenka's worried, "Are you all right?" seems to come from a lot further away than  
the radio headset.

Did I not just answer this question? Something wet was tickling my right ear, and I had to remind myself to listen to Rodney's answer.  
I'm sure I heard something about the infirmary, and I'm willing to bet when he asked what happened, he was looking for something more  
informative than "you crashed." That much we knew already, thanks.

There's nothing but water in front of the windshield, and the jumper isn't responding at all. No, wait, we've got depth info, and it's not good.  
"One two zero zero and falling." Why am I not surprised? Ancient Technology: built like a brick, sinks like a stone. I suppose it's an  
indication of how hard I hit my head that I find the alliteration clever.

The scientists are arguing about how to get us out of here. No, they're arguing over whose idea it was to try jumpers in the water.  
Unbelievable. I listen with half an ear, concentrating instead on what I do know about the jumper. It hardly matters anymore what went  
wrong initially, but the damage at this point is horrific. The jumper's warning cry has faded to a pitiful mewling in the back of my head,  
which is throbbing in time with the beat of my heart. Most of the controls are dead, and it's looking like the issue is more "survival" than  
"how to get out." They're related of course, but Murphy decided to give us a tighter time limit.

The heads up display vanishes with a depressing splorch-fizzle, and the unmistakable cracking sound from the windshield makes us both  
look up. Time's up, need another idea. We both know it; I say it. "That's a problem."

McKay helps me get back to the rear compartment, where he leaves me holding on to the cargo straps to stay upright. How he managed  
to come out with fewer injuries when I was the more secure of the two of us, I'll never know. But this isn't the time. He can't get the  
bulkhead to close, and the glass is creaking ominously. He pushes past me to the back of the rear compartment, desperately trying to  
find another way to put a barrier between us and the buckling windshield.

"Crash probably damaged all sorts of systems."

I try the door control again anyway. You never know, sometimes they have a way of surprising you and working. There's a reason people  
kick machines sometimes, and it's not just frustration. It doesn't work, though, and at that point I just know.

"Maybe if you were more focused on flying than enlightening me on the history of tomatoes!"

Yeah, because staring silently at the controls would have kept the drive pod from flaring into reverse. Right. "Well, your focus didn't get  
the drive pod to shut off. I'm still not blaming you." We who are about to die, salute you. Take it for what it is; I don't want you feeling  
guilty about this later on.

"Yeah, because it's not my fault!" Anger and frustration; he didn't get it, but I don't have time to explain. Maybe someone will translate it  
for him later.

All his intelligence and he can't make it work. There isn't time; no time at all, but this is where we military types show our smarts. We  
may not think about the same things they do, and we may not solve the same complicated equations they do, but we can think fast when  
needed, and this is a very simple equation. Soldiers don't get to choose who lives, only who dies, and in this case, it's me or both of us.  
Not a hard choice after all.

"I've got an idea." I dive back into the pilot's seat. He's staring at me like a deer in the headlights, terrified and bewildered. Whether he's  
more afraid of me or for me, I'm not certain. I'm not sure even he knows. Will he ever understand?

"What are you doing?"

There are engineering smarts, book smarts, and life smarts, and he's got two of the three. Maybe he's got the third, too, but I guess I'll  
never know. The knowledge that he has a better chance than I would of finding a way to survive back there on his own only makes it  
easier to do what I know has to be done. I can't get him out of here, but I can buy him time.

"Good luck, Rodney."


End file.
